


a siren's lament

by polishingopals



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Gen, Implied Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polishingopals/pseuds/polishingopals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wishes she could hate him completely, for making her into a tool, a prized possession. </p><p>She wishes she didn’t make him into more of a Siren than she already was – leading people to their inevitable death for her selfish chance of a human connection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a siren's lament

 

Angel tapped her bright yellow fingernails along the floor; a staccato that only she knew the tune to. The edge of the chair dug into her thighs as she faced the floor, presenting her spinal cybernetics for their daily checkup. Slivers of nail polish decorated the area around her feet.

The familiar touch of rubberised hands faded into the background, their work clinically precise as ever. She brought her fingers down to ring out against the metal once more, building in force, until finally her next catch leaned down.

She was a pretty one; there was no doubt about that. Anyone could see that her round face dusted in friendly freckles put one at ease. Her dark brown eyes glimmered as she offered Angel a rare treat: a genuine smile. How she made it this far in this corporation, Angel will never know.

“Hi, Angel,” she whispered, “I’m Rachel.”

Angel feels no need to introduce herself, and settled for a weak, lopsided smile, and the offer of her hand. Rachel has a firm, but not too hard, squeeze, the perfect blend of acknowledgement and comfort. It’s enough human contact to satisfy Angel for today. Rachel straightens up again, brown legs settling back into the blurry background of Angel’s life.

 _Tomorrow_ , she thinks. _Tomorrow we’ll have more time._

 

* * *

 

Rachel isn’t there tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

 

Her fath—no, _Jack_ , not even John anymore (though she admits to herself that John hasn’t been around for a long, long time) announces his presence with the throwing open of her chamber’s doors, striking a pose worthy of a promotional poster. Knowing Jack, it already is one.

Angel sits up straight in her throne, playing her part as the perfect princess: trying to force the delight of seeing her father into her eyes is more painful than when her damn cybernetics were installed. The years have made a convincing actor of Angel, as Jack doesn’t even bat an eyelid at her undoubtedly perfect expression. She may not be feeling delighted, but she can channel that small part of her that’s simply glad for someone to talk to. As they say, a lie is most convincing when it’s got a sliver of the truth woven into it.

He moves up to her pedestal, slinking across the shining chrome floor with the grace of a cat, his moves sleek and precisely controlled. He continues moving around her, as if he were in an art museum instead of an underground bunker on this “shithole of a planet”.

Her lip turns up ever so slightly, brow gently furrowed, even if his actions are slowly corroding her insides, churning deep in her stomach.

“So, sweetheart, my darling Angel,” Jack begins, voice sweet enough to evoke her nausea once more, rebounding off the walls from behind her. “How are you?”

She deigns him with her usual answer, face impassive as her moves back into her field of view. “I’m doing well, Jack.”

“Good, good,” he waves her off, continuing his prowl. She’s not fresh prey through – she’s been long caught, a small fish caught in the nets of his overarching plans.

The silence echoes around the room, bouncing off the frankly excessively huge Eridium injectors and the curved walls of her Rapunzel tower. She keeps her back straight, knees together, head up; she can’t--isn’t allowed--to be anything other than what Jack thinks she is.

She links her hands in her lap, anything to stop the tapping of her yellow-painted fingernails on the armrests. The paint is chipped; cracked; fading. It looks worse than yesterday. She doesn’t dwell on it.

He stops in his tracks, cracking the silence in two with the squeak of his sneakers on the floor. His heterochromatic eyes – sky blue and grass green – search her face, his eyebrows furrowing as his smirk disappears, only to be replaced with the slightest of frowns. Ice cold fear chills her bones, her knuckles white as she prepares for the worst.

“Are you getting lonely?” He asks, contemplative in a way she hasn’t seen in years. She wonders if maybe – just maybe – she’s just seen a glimpse of her father again. She lets out her deep breath, almost a sigh of relief.

She opens her jaw to answer, “Yes, oh god yes,” – it’s on the tip of her tongue, and she only just reigns her sprinter of a mouth in. Her mouth moves uselessly as she forms an infinite number of replies, appropriate and inappropriate alike.

“Scratch that, I know you’re getting lonely,” he interrupts her before she even begins. “You’re resorting to those low-life scientists to be your _friends._ ”

The words are spat from his mouth, disgust spread across her otherwise unmarked room in the form of flecks of saliva. Angel’s glad he’s not closer; mainly for the immediate fact that she didn’t just get covered in spittle. Also because she doesn’t think she can handle his manic intensity anymore.

“You know they don’t care about you, don’t you, pumpkin?” His sneer is pointed, once more, directly at her. She valiantly attempts to school her expression, staring into the distance, but the wince doesn’t get past Jack’s searching eyes.

He climbs up onto the pedestal, resting his large palm on her pale, _too pale_ , face, dotted with freckles that haven’t seen the light of day for years. His palms are rough, callouses formed from either shooting or strangling an excessive amount of people. She doesn’t want to think it, but it’s more than likely both.

“Cupcake, they only want to use you,” he says, as if she’s nine and not nineteen. “But you know I’ll always be here to save you from them, my precious girl.”

His caress is a pale imitation of a concerned father’s; sometimes she wonders, maybe…

She feels her nail polish collect under her nails, absent-minded scratching becoming evident. She doesn’t look down; she meets Jack’s gaze, blue and green shining in an actual mask. Hers is only just put in place. Her silence is an affirmation, an acknowledgement of his patronisation loosely veiled as paternal care.

“You’ll be glad to know,” no, she really won’t be, “that I’ll be coming by more often. You won’t be lonely anymore, babycakes, you have me.”

He bends down, and now they’re eye to eye, but Jack still has the upper hand. He’s never truly at eye level; he’s too much _more_ than that. His palm is still burning against her face, a fire that she isn’t sure where it truly started. Her arm burns in tandem with the memory of blue eyes, a round and caring face, a bright light--

“Oh, and, your scientist buddy?” he laughs, moving his hand to her shoulder. “She got what she friggin’ deserved for touching my baby girl, don’t you worry.”

 _There it is,_ she thinks, nodding numbly.

He rises once more, in his true position, and offers his hand to her. The only thing that makes her accept is the looming fear of the consequences. He hauls her to her feet, supporting her in a hug – it’s plastic, fake; the warmth his body gives off is almost the opposite of comforting. It’s a house fire that had one casualty, an accident unforgiven (even now, almost twenty years later), and most of all it’s stuffed to the brim with broken promises.

“Anything for my Angel,” he says, combing fingers through her hair. Her mind is floating around the room, only dimly realising how gentle he’s being around all the cybernetics, all the plugs in her body, all the wires connecting her to the planet itself.

Sometimes, she thinks, this might be worse than being alone. She can’t even bring herself to ask him to paint her nails – she knows he’d never let anyone else do them for her. But, after all these years, the shake in her hands - the power flowing through her veins, the purple pulse beneath blue tattoos - it’s too great for her to handle. 

Her nails are more chipped than ever, and somehow, that appeals to her. Her nails are red-haired chaos to her, but they’re bright in only the subtlest way, her own private rebellion. Green eyes and a cocky smirk - the teenage vault hunter inspires her in a way that is downright anarchical. 

Her gaze is fixed on the metal walls, counting the bolts once more, just to see if anything’s changed as she loses herself in thoughts of black and white stockinged mutiny. Jack’s finally fallen quiet, for once, the sound of his voice isn’t filling the room.

Only when he moves away, the braid falls onto her collarbone, hands ghosting over her cranium ports. She’s dimly aware of her father speaking yet again, but she’s pulled under by the tide of unbidden tears and bittersweet memories.

 

* * *

  

_“Dad!” A small, raven-haired girl runs at her father, his face unmarked and eyes still bright. “You’re home early!”_

_“That’s right, baby! Dad got off work early! Whaddya say, pumpkin, wanna go eat way too much pizza and watch movies?” The girl nods, whole head bopping up and down as she jumps up into his outstretched arms._

_The evening pours through the windows and finds the two on the couch, fingers greasy and bellies full. The girl’s wide blue eyes remain enraptured by the television as her father sneaks out into the bathroom. He settles back onto the couch, hairbrush in clean hands._

_“C’mere, cupcake,” he says, reaching out for her hair. A smile spreads across her face, breaking into an outright grin, as she scoots back to let him braid her hair._

_She goes to bed later with two plaits either side of her face, her ebullience shining bright._

 

* * *

 

Angel hangs her head, tears dropping onto her hands, her chipped nails. Jack’s there, fussing over her, and she thinks he’s saying something, asking something, but it’s all a blur. Her ears only hear static, white noise, as tears track down her freckled cheeks.

She allows her head to be pulled into his chest, barely feeling the jacket’s lapel against her cheek. There may be a sliver of John in there, but that just makes everything so much worse. Her body aches; she can’t muster the energy to push him off her.

She wishes she could hate him completely, for making her into a tool, a prized possession. She wishes she didn’t make him into more of a Siren than she already was – leading people to their inevitable death for her selfish chance of a human connection.

He finally leaves, the room brightening, the air lighter without his presence.

Her heaving sobs fade into the natural silence of her tower, flecks of yellow paint covering her lap.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first Borderlands fanfiction - any constructive criticism is welcome!
> 
> (sorry not sorry for the feels)


End file.
